


dance anew

by frosmxths



Series: on dreams and moving forward [1]
Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury Recovery, Introspection, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, References to Depression, character focus and study, reality divergence?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frosmxths/pseuds/frosmxths
Summary: He Inhales, and the world crashes down.Because Hwanwoong dances, because Hwanwoong likes to dance—But he cannot dance anymore.Hwanwoong learns to breathe again, somehow, through broken dreams and haunting pains.
Relationships: Lee Seoho/Yeo Hwanwoong, Son Dongju | Xion & Yeo Hwanwoong, background seoho/youngjo
Series: on dreams and moving forward [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144802
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	dance anew

**Author's Note:**

> never directly stated, but theres references to depression, anxiety.. and the heavy weight of the world. also mentions of dreams, of losing them, and finding yourself.
> 
> hi. this series is cathartic, in a way, and ive been working on worldbuilding and its aim for months now. i hope its to ur liking.

Yeo Hwanwoong dances.

Under fluorescent lights and to the beat of the music, with the ghost of moonlight and the taste of nostalgia—

Yeo Hwanwoong dances.

By the full-body mirror, the reflection of light, the reflection of darkness— to the beat of the music and sweat on his skin—to the feel of his shirt, his clothes on his back, his skin—

Yeo Hwanwoong dances.

Steps to the side and catches his eyes—reflection of himself in a grimace, in pain—reflection of himself all sharp and all too delicate—reflection of himself to the beat of the music, the beat of his heart—

Hwanwoong likes to dance.

Hwanwoong’s always liked to dance—under the spotlight and for the eyes of many, or under his room’s fluorescent for his eyes alone—to his favourite songs, to the beat of music assigned by others, to the beat of the world, an inhale, an exhale—

Hwanwoong likes to dance, so Hwanwoong dances.

Dances until sweat sticks black hair to his face—until his clothes are heavy and his breathing, too—until his limbs are sore and the music stops—until the light is blinding and bright _bright bright—_

He breathes in—

Hwanwoong dances.

A skip in the track and a skip in his step— as natural as breathing, as living, as _breathing—_

Movement light as air, electronic bass to the walls, to the mirror—an echo that goes back and forth— an echo in tune with his breathing, down to his _core_

Movement light as air, onwards and stiff—strength to the air and back to his rhythm, strength to the air and lost to his breathing—

The song ends, skips, repeats.

A breath. Eyes to the mirror, eyes to the world.

A step and another, another, _another_ —

Familiar and easy— a step and another— familiar and _painful_ —

His weight on his right, the harsh sound of synth—

His weight on his left, a skip in his step—

His weight on his right, his weight on his left—

His weight on his right, his weight on the _pain_ —

Hwanwoong dances,

but not anymore.

A skip, a note—a missed beat, a missed breath, then two, then three—

And the world blurs and comes back, cacophony of pain, cacophony of sound— and the studio turns to nothing and turns to _something,_ lost behind a blur, lost just like the world—

And then Hwanwoong falls.

To the lull of a synth and a drum, to the colour of pain and his dreams—

He falls to the floor, on his left, on his side—

The music keeps going, the fluorescent buzzing, the night keeps on turning—

And reality’s painful, just like that—the fluorescent overhead burns at his eyes, burns at his tears, his thoughts, his _pain—_

He tries to stand back up— once, twice, thrice, four, four, four _four four four fourfivesixseveneighteighteighteight—_

He focuses on breathing, on the feel of the floor— cool against heated skin, cool against running thoughts, grounding grounding _grounding_ against—

He focuses on anything, just not on the pain.

He focuses on breathing, on his arms, his hair—on the feel of his head, of the notes, and the buzz of the music—

He focuses on anything, just not on the _pain—_

A hand to his forehead, his hair—a hand on the floor and eyes on the mirror—

He Inhales, and the world crashes down.

Because Hwanwoong dances, because Hwanwoong likes to dance—

But he cannot dance anymore.

__

__

__

Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like himself lately.

Or, maybe, he hasn’t felt like himself for years now—maybe he hasn’t felt like himself since the director at RBW sat him down with a solemn look, hands all too tense and eyes all to stern, to let him know that there was _no way_ Hwanwoong was going to be an idol with his injury. Let him know that Hwanwoong was _good_ , no one could deny that, but for his own sake he just _couldn’t_ keep training, the company wouldn’t want to be responsible for such a bright dancer stopping, fading, the company wouldn’t want to be responsible if Hwanwoong had to quit, had to lose, _had to_ —

Or, just maybe, he hasn’t felt like himself for longer still—maybe he hasn’t felt like himself since he found solace on the floor of the practice room and an uncomfortable hospital bed, since his body gave way and his ankle gave _up—_

Maybe, just _maybe,_ he hasn’t felt like himself for years now— and it just never ends—maybe he just hasn’t felt like himself for _years_ now, and he’s simply falling deeper into the same void, the same thoughts the _same—_

Whatever it might be, Hwanwoong just doesn’t feel like himself— not lately, not for the last few months, days, weeks, _hours—_

It’s not that he’s _sad_ , not that he’s tired and outright _miserable—_ because it’s been long enough, long enough he can live with his injury, with his idiocy, has been long enough he’s grown used to haunting pain and the taste of mistakes.

It’s not that he’s sad, it’s just that he feels… _restless_.

He feels restless, lost—lost in life and in his choices—lost in dance and in his future—lost in everything that makes up _living_ —

And, usually, he’d just dive into work—dive into studies and dance until everything hurt hurt _hurt_ and his head stopped _turning—_ usually he’d dance until he couldn’t breathe, until the beat was in his veins and the world blurred blurred _blurred_ and turned to _nothing—_

but he can’t.

School’s busy, but it’s not enough, work is busy, but he _can’t_ go to work— because he can’t dance, because he pushed himself too far just last week, because his doctor had scolded him, because the physical therapist had looked at him like a misbehaving child, uttered something about being careless, about healing, about about _about—_

He can’t dance, can’t work, can’t _breathe._

Because his ankle hurts and he can barely walk again—because Seoho won’t let him move, because Seoho won’t let him go to the dance studio or stay extra hours at school (because Hwanwoong’s doctor had said so, because the physical therapist kept and _kept_ scolding him, because _the cats need you to be home so they have someone to_ _bother and give them attention_ and because because _because_ —)—

Because it’s for the best— Hwanwoong must follow, must listen, because it’s for the best, because it’s for his own _sake._

And he _knows_ it’s for the best— knows because he has already relapsed into pain time and _time_ again, thanks to his overworking and simply refusing to _listen—_ knows that, when people tell him to _stop,_ he has to— not for them but for _himself—_ or it’ll just get worse and _worse_ and he’ll never fucking _recover_.

He knows it’s so he can still _dance_ —so he can keep doing what he does, what he _loves_. It’s so he doesn’t have to stop forever, so he can rest and then get himself up again, as many times as needed—over and over and _over_ again.

He _knows_ that.

He knows that he’s an idiot, too, and that’s why he’s in pain—he knows he pushed himself too far at 20, 21, 22—knows he pushed too far and made himself lose a dream and a future, too stressed and broken and _stupid_ as he twisted the wound again and again and _again and—_

Be it the him from three years ago (20 years old and all too foolish) or the him from now (maybe 23 years old and with no direction), he knows he is, has always been, an idiot—an idiot that’s all too prone to overworking and throwing limits to the wind—an idiot that keeps and _keeps_ going against better judgement and against _against_ his own body’s complaints and—

He knows it’s his fault, too.

It’s his fault that he can’t do _anything_ anymore _—_ his fault he just _can’t_ be _himself—_ knows it’s his his _his fault_ that his ankle and his life are fucked up and that Seoho’s worried and so _so_ many _things_ and yet he’s still still _still_ —

“Woongie?” Seoho’s voice snaps Hwanwoong back to reality—back and away from his thoughts and doubts in the endless abyss, elastic band to his senses and the back of his eyes—Hwanwoong blinks, takes in the darkness and the material of Seoho’s shirt, grips all too tightly, breathes to nothing.

It’s late at night.

It’s a Tuesday and it’s late at night—Hwanwoong has physical therapy in the morning, and then Seoho has to go to work—

He breathes in, out—nuzzles in closer to the lull of their cats scratching at furniture.

“You’re thinking again” Seoho’s voice is something quiet, careful—raspy with sleep and a day of retail work on his shoulders. Hwanwoong gives him a laugh, limbs all too close and world in a blur. “aren’t you?”

“Sorry” Seoho pinches at Hwanwoong’s waist—Hwanwoong gives a whine, a huff of complaint before pulling back. “Just—just feeling a little lost, I guess?”

“Is it because I banned you from dancing?” And Seoho’s got a playful smile on his lips, eyes half-open and yet always _always_ on Hwanwoong— “I know you’re _jobless_ this week, but—”

“Not that” and he hits at Seoho’s cheek all too softly—breathes out laughter as he gets his thoughts together, body relaxing as Seoho holds him _just_ a little closer— “I’m just—I talked to my dance instructor, yeah?” He lets his hands drop—lets himself play with Seoho’s shirt, eyes falling closed and lips bitten _raw—_ “he said he was worried about me, and—”

“And?” Hwanwoong feels his breath hitch— buries his face in Seoho’s neck, chest, _anywhere—_

“I’m not— I’m not going to class anymore, like—I’ll keep working when I’m doing okay, but—” Seoho hums, runs a hand through the back of Hwanwoong’s hair—a little tense, a little worried— “I can’t _dance_ —not like I did before, right? This can’t—this can’t be my life anymore”

One of their cats gets on the bed, warm over the covers and to Hwanwoong’s thoughts—there’s the noise of the street, the lull of a purr—

Hwanwoong breathes in, out—pulls back to let Seoho kiss him, light and quick and so _so warm—_ “I guess it just… hit me again with this. That I can’t keep going like this—that I just… can’t keep waiting to get better only to break myself down again, and—”

Seoho kisses him quiet—kisses away tears and a thousand thoughts—kisses away doubts until Hwanwoong just can’t _breathe—_

“It’s fine” A smile as Seoho pulls away, takes Hwanwoong’s hand in his—“To be a little lost, I mean”

“It’s been years” Hwanwoong frowns, looks at nothing—feels the weight of another cat, of the bedsheets, of Seoho’s hands and of a thousand _mistakes_. “I should’ve gotten it together when—when we left the company, or when I started studying, or—”

“Woongie” Elastic, rubber, _feelings—_ Hwanwoong blinks, grounds himself on Seoho’s touch, voice, _breathing—_ “You’re 23” and a kiss, a hand to Hwanwoong’s face, to his hair again—“There’s time for both of us” and another kiss—and a hundred doubts, and a hundred _thoughts—_

Peanut butter purrs, lets out a little meow—climbs up the bed and up to Hwanwoong’s pillow—

Seoho laughs, all pretty, like always— brings Hwanwoong into a hug, warm, _safe_ —

“You could take up acting?” Hwanwoong makes a noise—something quiet, high, _questioning—_ “You’ve always been really good at that”

“Not true” and Hwanwoong’s voice is a murmur to the night—a murmur of thoughts and feelings, all captured in warm breathing and hands held _held_ together—

Seoho only sighs, gives little laugh— tickles at Hwanwoong’s side until Hwanwoong can’t think anymore.

__

Hwanwoong signs up for acting classes after letting his thoughts simmer—after one too many hours cuddling with Socks The Ruler Of Darkness (much to her dismay—fluffy tail tickling at Hwanwoong’s nose as he just didn’t let the poor cat flee from under the covers) and one too many more with his head on Seoho’s shoulder—fits them into his schedule over hours in the dance studio, rearranges his work and sets up the next two weeks of physical therapy to get scolded and get better, doesn’t miss his ankle brace even once.

Classes are twice a week—Monday afternoon and to the evening, and at the edge of Saturday morning and into the afternoon—and Hwanwoong figures that, even if he’s feeling scared— _anxious_ , even—he’ll be fine—

He has been in front of crowds before, a class like this is okay—he has performed countless times, has danced and has sung until everything ached, has fallen to harsh criticism and the weight of life—

A class like this is okay, should be okay—but it’s not.

It’s been _years_ since Hwanwoong stood in front of others—years since high school and years since he was a trainee—and it’s all suddenly too much, all suddenly not okay—

It’s all suddenly fear and a thousand _what if’s,_ and Hwanwoong’s forced to take in that maybe—just _maybe_ —he’s not accustomed to the stage and the spotlight anymore—

Hwanwoong’s not himself—Hwanwoong’s not been himself for years—Hwanwoong’s not been himself since he fucking _tore_ his ankle and couldn’t walk for _weeks—_ and now, sitting with his back to a neat theatre’s practice room’s wall and with his heart in his sleeve, it’s hitting him more than ever.

He’s afraid—he never stopped dancing, never under the fluorescent, never on the practice room, never to the eyes of himself or others—but he stopped dancing for the stage, for the world, for a _dream—_

Hwanwoong’s afraid, but he doesn’t even know _what of—_

“Are you feeling okay?” a classmate—Hwanwoong didn’t catch much of the introductions, but he remembers his name ( _Dongju_ ), at least—Dongju’s voice is something quiet, careful. Hwanwoong gives him a glance up, a little smile despite burning sweat at the back of his neck and broken words at the tip of his tongue.

Dongju frowns, crouches down to Hwanwoong’s eye level—

“I know we’re strangers, but” his knees hit the floor softly, hands placed over his thighs—polite, reserved, maybe even a little _shy—_ and his hair falls on his face. “You look unwell”

“I’m fine” his voice sounds _thin,_ but Hwanwoong ignores that—pushes forward after clearing his throat, eyes getting lost on the floor and hands gripping over his crossed legs. “I’m just, like, new to this?”

“You’re new?” Dongju’s eyes widen, pretty and kind, and Hwanwoong huffs out a laugh with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“You’ve never seen me in class before, right?” and he sounds a little lighter, a little better—Dongju only blinks, cocks his head to the side with a little frown.

“Well, yeah, but” Dongju shrugs, lets out a little laugh of his own—heart-shaped and sweet. “I thought you meant to acting”

“I did” Hwanwoong lets out a smile, a soft quirk of his lips—Dongju blinks again, pushes back black bangs that fall to his eyes and nose.

“You’re good, though, you looked pretty natural” and Hwanwoong’s posture straightens, even if only a little bit, as a playful smirk make its way to his lips.

“Flattering” he pushes off the wall slightly, hands to the floor and eyes to Dongju’s for a second—then to his hair, soft-looking and a little long—and then to the wall, to the floor. “I guess I’m not _new_ new”

“No?” Dongju’s posture seems to relax a little, too—hands now playing with the material of his sweatpants and his cardigan sleeves. “ _New_ new?”

“I’ve never, like, taken _acting_ like this” Hwanwoong shrugs, lets his eyes travel the floor—the dirty carpet, the cat hairs on his own clothes, his sleeves— “I did take acting for the while I was a trainee, though, so”

“Like, idol trainee?” Hwanwoong winces, eyes glued to the floor—hair to his face, prickling, tickling—

“Yeah” He gives a shrug, pulls at the carpet—feels it rough on his skin, almost _painful_ as he tenses up— “That was years ago, though”

“Oh” Hwanwoong breathes—Dongju stays in silence—and suddenly it’s all too suffocating, and Hwanwoong feels all too _foolish_ for trusting his broken dreams to someone who’s just a _stranger—_ “That’s so cool—like, that you were a trainee and stuff”

“Cool?” but Dongju—Dongju feels _familiar_ , familiar in the way he holds himself, in how he pushes his hair back and cocks his head to the side—in how he smiles and sits there, calm and careful in a bright red cardigan and checkered sweatpants.

“It’s really, um, hard, right?” Hwanwoong gives muted nod—feels his mind spin a thousand a minute, come to a halt— “I think it’s cool, my brother’s—my brother’s an idol, sort of? so—”

“Sort of?” Interest piqued, Hwanwoong turns to look at Dongju’s face again—finds him with eyes lost somewhere on the wall and shoulders held a little too _tense—_

“He’s in a band” Dongju smiles—forced, stiff—and Hwanwoong can only nod—“So not quite _idol_ , but—” and he shrugs, bites at his bottom lip before looking back at Hwanwoong with a smile, something softer, _sweeter—_ “It’s super hard, right? So I think it’s cool”

“Thank you” Hwanwoong gives a laugh, a shrug of one of his shoulders—“Not that cool, though, just a lot of practicing”

“I don’t like leaving my bed” Dongju shrugs, Hwanwoong snorts—it feels nice, it feels _alright—_ “So it’s cool to me”

“Thank you, thank you” a little sigh, playful, carefree—and Hwanwoong smiles, leans back on the wall—feels the ghost of numbness and a little pain to his right ankle, crossed over his left—“But yeah, it’s been years since—since I did _that_ , so” he moves to stretch his leg—stops when he’s almost hitting Dongju—“I’m not used to it anymore, I guess”

“To eyes on you?” blunt, _sharp_ —Hwanwoong feels static run down his back, to his injured joint, to his hands, _eyes—_

He doesn’t reply—Dongju doesn’t pry, moves a little further back, enough that Hwanwoong can stretch a little more, a little better—

“Is your foot okay?” Dongju’s hands are on the floor, eyes on Hwanwoong still—Hwanwoong only shrugs, lets his foot move from side to side until it cracks—

“Not really” a smile, Dongju frowns. “You’re awfully sweet, you know that?”

“I’m just worried” an alarm buzzes in Dongju’s pocket—he takes his phone out, turns it off carefully—“We’ll be classmates, right?”

“What if I left after today?” A little smirk as Dongju pockets his phone—Dongju hums, something a little _whiny_ , and pushes himself up—

“You don’t seem the type” Dongju smiles, pretty—eyelashes long and seeming to tangle with his hair as he stretches an arm out for Hwanwoong to take.

“Observant, aren’t you?” Hwanwoong allows himself some teasing—allows himself a laugh, a breeze of something _safe_ —

“I guess” a half-hearted shrug—kind eyes as Hwanwoong takes Dongju’s hand—

He lets himself get pulled up, weight to his left and on Dongju’s hold, and the rest of the day goes by like a breeze.

__

**Dongju:**

| 

I never got your name!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
---|---  
  
| 

even though i got ur number ><  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

u didn’t????  
  
| 

thought ud have heard it in class :I?  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

>n<  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

Hwanwoong  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

Hwanwoong-ssi~~~~  
  
| 

ah hold on  
  
| 

u're older than me, right?? because u said  
  
| 

u were a trainee for years  
  
| 

or maybe we’re the same age  
  
| 

I forgot to ask??, did I ask  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

how  
  
| 

how old are u?  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

22222222  
  
| 

new millennium child >:)  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

oh  
  
| 

why the heck are u so tall oh my god  
  
| 

Im older  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

Shortie >:?  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

dONT BE RUDE?  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

:(  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

whyre u :(ng me  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

u yelled at me  
  
**Hwanwoong:**

| 

u called me sHORT? AND WE JUST MET?  
  
**Dongju:**

| 

oh  
  
| 

ohyeah  
  
| 

hehe  
  
| 

oops  
  
| 

talking to u is easy so I just  
  
| 

um  
  
| 

might’ve forgottenwe met just this afternoon?  
  
Does Hwanwoong drop his phone on his face at that? Maybe he does, but the only ones home to judge are his cats (since Seoho had gone over to Youngjo’s to spend the rare free night the other had managed to get from hectic schedules), so he finds that he doesn’t really _care—_

Dongju’s not only oddly _familiar,_ he’s also cute—cute and all too easy to talk to and tease, even if they’re both a little awkward and seemingly bad with strangers—even if they had just met and even if they know nothing about each other, about dreams and about _life—_

Or maybe it’s _because_ they don’t know each other—because Hwanwoong has suffocated himself to broken expectations and left-behind dreams, around people that he loves so _dearly_ but that remind him time and _time_ again that his world has fallen _apart—_

He has school, yeah, but he’s always been _dancing_ —and now he’s not, now he’s dropped his classes, now he’s been at home and on his own—now he’s responded to texts from classmates and friends that ask about dance, about class, about work, _about about about—_

Maybe he needed fresh air—Seoho had said so, even, more than once and to the point it tired Hwanwoong up, to the point he yelled at Seoho to _stop pitying him_ and Seoho had left the apartment with eyes all too red (and then they made up—through the phone and while Hwanwoong cried—talked about breathing and about thinking too much, talked about dreaming and what was left behind.)—and Hwanwoong had thought about it, too—

He just never actually _tried—_ too used to routine, to dancing, to _suffering—_

Acting is fresh, new—it’s something that’s far away enough from that which he lost, and yet close enough to sting, even if only a little bit—Acting is new, and so is Dongju—

Dongju’s playful, cute—someone younger than Hwanwoong with whom he doesn’t discuss dreams of being an idol (because everyone from school was like him, dreaming big, dancing—following whims and dreams as they can, never breathing, always _running_ )—someone younger than Hwanwoong that doesn’t talk to about school, at least not for _now_ , and someone younger that doesn’t look at him with something like _respect_ —

It sounds odd, even to himself, but it feels almost _soothing—_ how Dongju pokes fun at him, even after knowing him for a few hours only—how Dongju called his training _cool_ and then proceeded to call him _lame_ when he made a facial expression that was _maybe_ a little too much—how Dongju laughed at him in class, soft hair in a messy ponytail on top of his head after it got in his eyes one too many times, sleeves of his cardigan _whacking_ at Hwanwoong softly as they figured out the exercise and failed so _bad—_

It’s soothing—soothing that Dongju doesn’t really know him—and Hwanwoong’s not sure if it’s because he’s been trapped for so _long_ , but he feels lighter—feels a breeze and running thoughts, and his broken dreams weigh down on him a little less, even if only for _today—_

He runs a hand through Xion’s fur—the kitten purrs, lets out a little squeak of a meow and shakes his head. Hwanwoong laughs, sits up on his bed carefully, lets his feet fall to the floor all too softly before he picks up the kitten.

“Let’s get you food” and then Peanut butter meows _loudly_ , and Ravn stretches on the floor by the door, and Socks peeks from inside her usual box—

And Hwanwoong remembers, for a split second, what it’s like to just be _himself._

__

“What band’s your brother in, anyway?” Saturday, and they leave class together—naturally gravitate to bumping shoulders and to Dongju supporting Hwanwoong until they can sit at a bench outside. Dongju helps him sit, drops down next to him with a little pout—shrugs before he talks, eyes on the floor and hands tense on worn concrete.

“Doesn’t matter” cold, quiet—a little too sharp, _pained—_ “He’s not, like, big anyway” Dongju’s nails scratch at dirt, cement, concrete, _dust_ —“You won’t know him”

“Do you not get along?” Hwanwoong doesn’t mean to _pry_ , not like this, not at _all—_ but there’s something, something that feels wrong—something familiar and yet all too foreign, something that prickles at Hwanwoong’s breath and unshed tears—

“We do” all too quick, panicked—Dongju’s hands fly to his lap, proper and nervous, and he smiles. “We do, really, it’s just—” and he bites his lip, grips at his pants all too tightly, too _frail—_

“You don’t need to tell me” Hwanwoong gives him a smile, head tilted just enough that Dongju can see him well. “We like, just met and all, you don’t have to” and Dongju’s shoulders seem to _relax_ , seem to fall back as he breathes _out—_ “Hope it’s all good, though?”

“It is” and Dongju’s smile is as _painful_ as it is beautiful—hair on his face and covered in an all too big jacket—lips drawn tight and eyes a little lost—“It’s good, just—”

“Then we let it go” and Hwanwoong jumps to his feet—winces a little bit and has Dongju scrambling to stand, too, hands to Hwanwoong’s side and shoulder as Dongju _squeaks_ in worry— “You don’t need to pour your heart out to a stranger, yeah?” and he looks up at Dongju with half-closed eyes—with Dongju’s hand on his shoulder and the other on his forearm, with Dongju’s eyes on his and the ghost of spring to his senses and worries— “You can tell me later, when you trust me more, how’s that?”

“Later?” Dongju’s a little tense, a little shaky—Hwanwoong only smiles, thinks about tomorrow, thinks about the future, thinks about _later—_

He hasn’t thought about that in a long time—not about tomorrow, not about later—

It feels nice—the future feels nice, unsure and trapped in the mist—and Hwanwoong wishes he can get to it soon.

(He hasn’t thought about being alive in a long time, he realizes.)

__

“As much as I hate to say it” forehead against Seoho’s chest, in bed and half-asleep in the middle of a weekday evening, Hwanwoong lets his voice and thoughts free—“I guess you were right”

“About?” Seoho’s hand cards through Hwanwoong’s hair, to the back of his neck—slips away a second, soft against a cat’s fur before it comes back.

“That I needed fresh air, or whatever” He looks up at Seoho then, hair dishevelled and eyes sleepy—mind pulled by the remnants of sleep and the soothing of Seoho’s warmth. “It’s nice, I guess”

“I’m glad” Seoho gives him a smile, a quick kiss to his cheek—Hwanwoong laughs, too, leans into kiss Seoho as well—quick on his lips before he pushes away—

“You washed your mouth after kissing Youngjo-hyung earlier, right?” Hwanwoong squints, lets the pads of his fingers fall on Seoho’s lips—soft, teasing— Seoho just _laughs_ , loud and annoying as he squeezes Hwanwoong tighter.

“What if I didn’t?” Hwanwoong tries to push away, all too half-hearted, too weak—huffs in complaint as he gives up, cuddles closer to Seoho’s sweater with a pout.

“Then I have gross Youngjo-hyung _spit_ on me” and he sticks his tongue out in disgust, for good measure—Seoho snorts, loosens his hold on Hwanwoong at the same time Peanut butter starts to meow for food.

“He didn’t lick me” Hwanwoong rolls away—makes Socks squeak indignantly as he bumps against he back—“So you got no spit, don’t worry”

“Still gross” Hwanwoong pushes himself up to sit, pushes Socks away carefully—only enough that he can stretch up, let his legs fall on top of Seoho’s—“Make me lunch”

“Make your own lunch” even as he sits up, pats carefully at Hwanwoong’s right leg before pushing off his left—“Youngjo-hyung left food earlier, I’ll just heat it up”

“Cool” Seoho snorts, gets off the bed—Hwanwoong simply flops back down, lets Xion jump to bite at his pants and Socks climb on his chest—“Thanks”

“You wash the dishes later” and Seoho ruffles Hwanwoong’s hair a _little_ too hard before he crosses over to their stained little microwave, Tupperware on top of it foggy with use—

It’s silence for a bit—only the microwave’s hum, the rhythm of Seoho’s footsteps as he walks to the bathroom and back—the purr of their cats, Xion’s little squeaks as he wrestles with the bedsheets and Hwanwoong’s pants—

“I’m glad, though” and the microwave dings—Hwanwoong looks up, scratches at the back of Socks’ head with a little hum—“Not about being right, about _you_ ”

“Me?” Hwanwoong pushes up on his elbows, Socks complains, slides down his shirt and jumps off the bed—

“You seem lighter” and Seoho shoves him to the side just a little bit, sits down with food in hand and mismatched cutlery. “You’d been spiralling badly again” a frown—Hwanwoong dusts his hands off cat hair and dirt, hums quietly, carefully—

“I guess I was” He takes chopsticks from Seoho’s hand with a little smile, a kiss to his cheek. “Sorry?”

“Don’t—” Hwanwoong makes a noise, interrupts—mouth full of food and eyes a little too serious, a little too _sad—_

“I made you worry” as he swallows his food, looks up at Seoho with almost a _pout—_ “I don’t wanna worry you”

“It’s not your fault, though?” and Hwanwoong rolls his eyes, playful, light—shoves food to Seoho’s mouth and feels a cat rub against his back.

“No, but it’s still me” he shrugs, picks up food before dropping it again—he sighs. “It’s been years, too, but I’m an idiot”

“You’re not” Seoho pats at Hwanwoong’s cheek, settles for holding his face—“It’s not easy”

“It’s really not” and then Seoho kisses him again, tasting like soy sauce and meat and like microwaved oil—tasting like care and like love and like everything that’s gone and new—

Somehow, the overcast sky today looks just a little brighter, Hwanwoong thinks, Xion on his lap and biting at an old pair of socks, Seoho scrolling through his phone on the bed behind him—

The curtains are open, but there’s really no light anymore—

But even so, the day feels a little brighter, a little nicer—

Hwanwoong can _breathe—_

__

Hwanwoong can breathe—Hwanwoong still doesn’t feel like himself, but he can _breathe—_ can breathe when he has to stop for cat food on his way home, can breathe when Seoho’s home and when he’s not, can breathe when Dongju tells him about his day and about their class—

Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like who he used to be, but Hwanwoong can _breathe—_ can see a little more colour, even when the day turns grim, and his dreams are a mess and so is his mind and so are his _thoughts,_ but Hwanwoong can _breathe—_

Acting goes well, even if he’s scared—even if the stage reminds him of too much, even if the eyes of others bring him back to dance—and then he’s not in pain anymore, and then he can dance, and then he can _work—_

A week, two, three—four and it’s a month, and his ankle’s okay enough again, and they tell him to be careful, and Hwanwoong can dance—

He works on Tuesdays, class is on Monday—

He works on Tuesdays, class is on Monday—it’s Monday afternoon, and Hwanwoong’s _scared—_

“Don’t you miss dancing?” They’re sitting at the small food court of the little theatre, Hwanwoong drowning in worries and Dongju’s hands tapping at the table, quiet, patient—

“I do” Hwanwoong shrugs, pokes at his half-finished drink, lets the straw fall and tap against his nose—“I want to dance, just—”

“Are you scared?” and Dongju’s hands stop tapping—and his eyes fix on Hwanwoong’s, honest, worried—

Hwanwoong looks at the table, at his hands, the little ring on his finger—matching with Seoho, a promise of forever and of being loved—he turns it, fidgets, shrugs again.

“It’s normal to be scared” Dongju plays with the ends of his sleeves, fluffy jacket covering him in a way that’s almost _too_ cute, too pretty—“You had to stop for a long time, right?”

“Yeah” Hwanwoong bites at his straw, holds the plastic cup in both hands, lets faded brown hair tickle at his eyes—“I had to before, too, and it was _fine_ , just—”

“I’d be scared too” Dongju’s eyes break away, hands a little too tense on the table, the world—“I’d run away, even” and his voice is quiet, _frail—_

It’s new, it’s different—it’s the same as a month back, when Hwanwoong asked about his brother, when Hwanwoong’s world was dark, and Dongju’s seemed to be, too—

“You’ll do well, but it’s okay to be scared” Dongju smiles, eyes still lost, eyes still _gone—_ “It must be heavy—since they believe in you, and all that”

“Dongju” Dongju blinks, taps at the table again—avoids Hwanwoong’s eyes, worry, _thoughts—_ “I don’t—I don’t want to pry, so like, feel free to tell me off, but—” and Dongju’s breath hitches, and Hwanwoong’s breath _holds—_

A second—the sound of footsteps, the beat of time, of air, of _breathing—_

Hwanwoong exhales, lets himself reach out—lets himself take Dongju’s hand, soft, careful, _scared—_

“It’s heavy for you, too, isn’t it?”

And there, in the little table after class, with their hearts in their sleeves and their fears to the wind, Dongju cries—

It’s not loud, it’s not dramatic—it’s quiet, it’s _pained—_

It hurts a little from how quickly he stands, but Hwanwoong finds that he doesn’t care.

__

Hwanwoong learns about Dongju a little more, then—

Hwanwoong learns that Dongju wanted to try and be a singer, too—learns that Dongju felt like he was following his brother’s shadow his whole life, but still wanted to try—

He learns that Dongju left it all behind—that he tried and he _failed,_ and then it all felt stupid—and then he moved on—

He learns that Dongju has dreams, but they’re broken and lost, much like him, much like them—

He learns that Dongju feels broken, that Dongju feels scared—

And Dongju learns, too, that Hwanwoong’s lost—that Hwanwoong’s broken, that Hwanwoong only stopped because he had no choice, that Hwanwoong longs for the stage as much as he _fears_ it—

And they’ve known each other a month, and they’ve known each other so little—but in the abyss time isn’t real, and in the abyss time is too much, too little—

And in the abyss of feelings and thoughts, feelings of being lost without a goal, a place, a dream— everything melds into nothing, and nothing melds into too much, too little, too _much—_

(“Hey, Dongju?” a hand to push his hair back—a hand on Dongju’s own, fingers intertwined and brain all too fast, too slow, _too fast—_ “I know it’s because things are shit, but, still, I’m glad I met you”

“Gross” laced with tears, with laughter, with feelings—Hwanwoong laughs, too, takes Dongju’s hand in his— lets their fingers intertwine, careful, loving—

And Dongju sniffles, there, sitting in the bathroom floor—sniffles and laughs, too pretty, too bright—and holds Hwanwoong’s hand back, as careful, as loving—

“I’m glad I met you, too”)

And Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like himself, not all there—Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like he exists, some days, even when Seoho holds his hand and kisses him until they both forget—

Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like himself, and the world turns too much, and some days are still muddy, still gloomy, still lost—Hwanwoong doesn’t feel like himself, but he can _breathe—_

And maybe it didn’t have to be Dongju, maybe it didn’t have to acting—but he’s glad that it was, because acting is good, because acting is fine—he’s glad that it was, because Dongju’s there, and Dongju’s bright, careful, kind—

Dongju didn’t get him out of the abyss, Dongju didn’t make him breathe—

But Dongju’s safe—being with Dongju feels natural, feels _right—_

Hwanwoong’s glad it was him.

**Author's Note:**

> [twt](https://twitter.com/frosmxths)
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/frosmxths)


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